A Mail Order Bride for the Undertaker (Love by Mail #1)(4)

The man nodded. “Yes, well, I need two caskets. One for my granddaughter, and one for my father-in-law.”

He plucked a piece of paper from the pocket of his coat. “Here are their measurements. I can’t imagine you’d encounter many commissions for a four-year-old.”

Cole nodded and took the paper. “I’ll come by your place when it’s ready. And give my condolences to Mrs. Dubson.”

“Actually, she’s right outside the shop.” Mr. Dubson looked over his shoulder and glared at someone. He turned back to Cole and shrugged. “She’s not really comfortable with being inside an undertaker’s shop.”

Cole gave a small smile. “It’s not like I keep a lot of caskets on display. I try not to keep things gloomy in here.”

“Maybe that’s part of the problem, Cole.” Mr. Dubson coughed and sat on one of the wooden stools scattered in his shop. “You know the people in this town. Many of them think you should be more serious.”

“You mean grim like my father?”

“Your father was a hard-working man who did his job without complaint or - or –”

“Joy?”

Mr. Dubson shook his head. “You’re an undertaker, son. It’s unnerving to see you singing while carving up someone’s coffin.”

Cole sighed, biting back a remark, while Mr. Dubson stood up and tipped his hat. “Anyway, just send word when you finish the caskets.”

“Sure will, Mr. Dubson.”

The man left and Cole began circling his shop for supplies.

“You will eat the fruits of your labor,” he sang under his breath as he went about gathering his supplies.

“Let’s look at the sizes.” He glanced at the paper, then looked around for his tools. “All right. Where are my nails? Ah, here. Saw. Chisel. Hammer…” He turned around, placing a pencil behind one ear. “Where’s my hammer? Where on earth is my hammer, Paul?”

He stopped mid-turn, and placed his hands on his work table. He shook his head, as if clearing away cobwebs in his mind. His dead brother’s name still lingered in his mind. He rubbed his face and took a deep breath.

“Right.” Cole gathered his tools and started measuring the piece of wood.

“Mail! Get your mail!” He barely finished when a boy’s voice broke the silence. Young Tim Locke passed by the shop, shouting at the top of his lungs. He was Nell Dubson’s nephew and the loudest rascal in town.

“Hey, there, Tim.”

The boy turned around and frowned, eyes darting sideways. Cole sighed. He could only imagine what the boy’s mother had been telling him about the suspiciously jolly undertaker, who hums while he embalms dead bodies.

“Uh, G-good mornin’ to ye, Mr. Beckett.”

“Do you have a letter for me?”

The boy immediately pulled out a thin envelope and handed it to Cole with a grin

“Thanks, Tim.” The boy nodded and went around town.

Cole could barely contain his excitement, as he opened the letter. The moment he saw the elegant paper and the neat handwriting his heart jumped to his throat.



Dear Mr. Beckett,

My name is Mercy Elkwood, a young woman of 18 years, looking to correspond with a kind, young man such as yourself.



It was a blur of smudged words, and only one thing penetrated the pounding in Cole’s ears. Someone had finally answered his ad. He took a deep breath. He found his bride.

*

It took a few more letters, but in the span of eight weeks, Cole was going to be a married man, albeit with less money than a week before.

Cole walked into the empty he church, save for the Reverend Nathan Shepard and his sister, Claire. They were busy sweeping between the pews, but the reverend looked up when Cole’s boots pounded lightly against the floorboards.

“Ah, Cole, what brings you here?” The pastor put aside his broom and straightened up. “It’s been weeks since we last talked!”

Cole shrugged. “Work kept me away. Anyway, I have something for the church.” He held out an envelope. Pastor Shepard took it, brows scrunched in confusion.

“Oh, thank you, Cole.” He pocketed the envelope and smiled. “The Lord rewards those who are generous.”

“I hope so.” Cole chuckled, shaking off the cold settling at the pit of his stomach. “I’m getting married.”

The pastor’s eyebrows shot up to the heavens, and his sister, Claire ran over to them, with a smile on her face. “Who is it? Is it Maria, the baker’s daughter?”

“Uh, no, her name’s Mercy.”

Claire wiped her hands in her dark, wrinkled apron. She frowned. “But there’s no Mercy in town.”

“We’ve corresponded.” Cole pocketed his hands. He threw a glance at Pastor Shepard, who cleared his throat.

The older man turned to his sister. “Claire, could you please take the linens at the altar for laundry? Cole and I need to catch up.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at her older brother, but nodded and left.

Pastor Shepard clasped his hands in front of his chest and sighed. “I’m guessing you met your bride through the papers?”

Cole pursed his lips and nodded.

“And you’ve been sending letters for a few weeks now?”